


Kaleidoscope

by Black_Calliope



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Emotional Manipulation, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Calliope/pseuds/Black_Calliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s wrong and dirty and <i>beautiful</i> all at once, the scent of their sweat mixing together, soaking the rumpled sheets as finally, <i>finally</i>, Lydia sits on Peter’s cock, lets gravity and the man’s strong hands guide her down onto him.</p>
<p>“My precious, precious bitch,” Peter growls against the paleness of her neck, cock twitching inside Lydia and his fingers sink into her round hips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kaleidoscope

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by [this pic](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcrxtqaR4q1qizw7yo1_500.jpg).

There will always be a part of Lydia that’s going to miss the way things were before Peter came along, invading her nights, her dreams, even the air she breathes in. After all, life in Beacon Hills has always been discretely quiet and, with it, so had Lydia’s.

“A gorgeous rose kept under a crystal case, that’s what you are,” Peter always tells her, gentle, trembling words like honey on his lips, at least before the roundness of Lydia’s body against his turns them into harsh sounds and panted vowels.

With Peter, everything feels like riding a very sharp swing, like any careless movement could split Lydia open and make her bleed just as much as it could have her smiling the brightest of her smiles, arms and legs closing around Peter’s body and shaping a world that’s only theirs. “I don’t need you,” she tells him at times, mostly when outside becomes a blurred mix of  _dull_  and  _old_  and  _alien_ , her voice flowing out like the most velvety of the venoms, softly curling around Peter’s chest like a hug. So young it hurts.

“Sure you don’t, princess,” he blandishes her, plays along because that’s his nature, the wolf’s instinct to protect and soothe, teeth sinking into flesh until all the pain will bleed away.

So he holds Lydia in his arms, kisses her eyelids and her forehead in a way so intimate it makes Lydia shiver with fear. She doesn’t remember anyone ever doing that to her, not even her own dad, her  _father_ , and that thought makes something scream and crumble inside her, over and over and over. And as she falls apart, Peter’s hands are there to catch the pieces, rearrange them all together into something Lydia can finally understand.

That’s exactly when her words of denial turn into pleads, her shaking,  _so small_  hands finding Peter’s shoulders and holding onto them. “I’m so cold,” she whimpers, “-So cold. Please, Peter.  _Please._  Make it stop.” An aching pain devouring her bones as she trembles against him. Defenseless.

That’s what the beast is waiting for, what it  _craves_ , it’s written all over the fluid movements of Peter’s hands as he undresses her, over the darkness of his skin and the firmness of his muscles, everything in him sings of victory and pleasure, whispers things that Lydia doesn’t want to hear and, yet,  _needs_.

She is always so wet by the time Peter’s fingers slip between her legs, and each time Peter rewards her with a pleased groan, fingertips sliding against her opening, teasing her as his mouth lands a thousands kisses all over her upper body, neck and collarbones and breasts, the edge of Peter’s teeth catching against Lydia’s nipples, making her squirm in anticipation.

That sort of adoration always brings Lydia on the verge of tears, makes her feel unbalanced and  _raw_  in a way she both despises and loves. And yet there isn’t any shyness in her when her hand closes around Peter’s hard cock, painted nails playing with the glistening bead of pre-come pooling at the tip, stretching it until it becomes a trembling thread that keeps them connected.

During these times, Peter seems almost sweet, his warm, naked body a safe harbor towards which Lydia can make herself drift. And so she does, as Peter’s fingers work their way inside her body, gently spreading her as he pulls Lydia onto his lap, his other hand possessively palming her ass, claws barely threatening against her fragile skin.

It’s wrong and dirty and  _beautiful_  all at once, the scent of their sweat mixing together, soaking the rumpled sheets as finally,  _finally_ , Lydia sits on Peter’s cock, lets gravity and the man’s strong hands guide her down onto him.

“My precious, precious bitch,” Peter growls against the paleness of her neck, cock twitching inside Lydia and his fingers sink into her round hips. In reply, Lydia can’t help but moan, because she was lost and broken and  _dying_ , and Peter has brought her back, has given her air to breathe and concreteness to hold on to.

They move together, fucking like tomorrow is not only a mere definition but also a deadly axe swinging over their necks, Lydia’s knees bumping into the pillow every time Peter thrusts up to meet her, drives into her heat and slickness and still  _asks for more_.

But Lydia doesn’t have anything else to offer beside a long cascade of desert-sand red hair and plump, parted lips, needs Peter to dig a hole inside her chest, fill her with heat and madness and  _his come_ , until Lydia will be bursting with it, content and quietness finally washing over the flames enveloping her heart.

So, yes, there will always be a part of Lydia that’s going to miss the way things were before Peter came along, but Peter has made sure that Lydia would have it locked somewhere deep, where everything is dark and full of thorns, and no one will ever hear it scream.


End file.
